


In My Aloneness

by Not_Even_a_Cupcake_Survived



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Blood and Gore, Humor, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Porn With Plot, Sadism, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_Even_a_Cupcake_Survived/pseuds/Not_Even_a_Cupcake_Survived
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, recently returned from Afghanistan, starts working at the University of Hawkenridge, where he attracts the attention of the brilliant but sinister Professor Moriarty. When murders commence in the University, though, Sherlock Holmes is summoned, which brings the trio to their first encounter.</p><p>Not truly AU, but an alternative story of how the trio met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Aloneness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KatsudonLink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatsudonLink/gifts).



**Chapter 1**  
  
 _In my aloneness_  
 _I realize one’s own worth_  
 _Of the vast landscapes of my mind_  
 _Light engulfs me_  
 _On my Heavenly road to the eternal gate_  
  
 _And only if someone could just help me_  
 ~~ _Just someone_~~  
 ~~ _Some darn person, just some person to_ ~~  
  
    “Mr. Watson, just what are you even writing?” I hear. It is no one but Professor James Moriarty, serving mutually in the Biochemistry and Philosophy departments, an example that I’ve first encountered in my life. Serving in Afghanistan for years, you don’t encounter much but expansive deserts, sandstorms and wailing soldiers bleeding into the sand. The glitter of the crimson blood in the desert sun, and the way it dried within short moments under the heat; these images are likely to dwell forever in my mind.  
    I panic slightly: Moriarty’s intimidating. His eyes seem to speak to me. He looks intensely at me sometimes, right into my eyes, as if in a dramatic play and with everyone watching us, anticipating a climactic moment between us.  
    He creeps me out. I just wish I wasn’t associated with him at all; I just want him to go away. Mind his own business and give his lectures. Just never know me. Let me do my thing, James Moriarty. Let me starve in my own solitude in my homeland, being all alone. Anyone else but you would’ve made a companion.  
    Looking back at him, I quickly grab the piece of paper and mould it into a ball, doing all this while staring back at Moriarty, it’s just all too conspicuous.  
    “Was that a poem you were writing, Mr. Watson? Even though your attempt to cover the whole thing up, I did catch a glimpse of what you were writing. And it even started in this way, if I’m not mistaken: In My Aloneness...”  
    I have to go on with the banter. Just the casual banter. Take it easy.  
    “Well... That was a good observation, Professor Moriarty...”  
    And he just laughs out loud at this. In the madman way, almost like a cliché. I just called him Professor Moriarty, what is up with that? What is it that he finds so funny? I can anticipate what he’s going to say next, or...  
    “Please, please, Mr. Watson. Don’t call me that, only the freshmen of this University refer to me that way, and later they get used to other ways as well. I would like you to call me... Jim. It’s that simple. Jim! It surely is an easier word to pronounce than ‘Moriarty’, isn’t it?”  
    Fake. It’s acting. This man cannot contain such a pleasant soul.  
    “Right, uh, Jim. So Jim, I really was writing a poem. I’m not much a poet myself, but you know the things, sometimes one just gets that urge to jot a few words down. It really wasn’t important, I was just doing it to...”  
    I was doing it to puke my emotions onto the paper. Feelings swell up inside and flow out these days. I can’t help it. It’s just me, I think.  
    “I know why people write poems. I’m sure it was a beautiful one, though, given the nature of your soul. So much time in Afghanistan, so much violence and death, should’ve been... mildly frustrating for you, perhaps?” He chuckled.  
    “Please, I prefer not to talk about this, I’ve really talked this a lot of times before, I’m talking it with my psychologist, and I’m getting really fed up.”  
    I felt anger spill and dissolve into my veins, my hands clenching themselves into fists, but I managed to stop them halfway through. Moriarty looked slightly offended, though I felt as if he had planned that, observing the slightly aggressive way I had reacted to his remark.  
    “Alright, um, apologies.”  
    “Oh, really, no need, I can understand your frustrations about this issue... It’ll all pass, I’ll assure you. If it makes you feel slightly better about it, I mean. I know how some memories just remain inside you. You know, I just imagine them like those people who are trying to read the newspaper from your back. Leaning towards your the side of your head. They’re always there, those memories, still looking if they can join in the fun.”  
    Fun, I thought to myself. Life surely was on the Fun track lately.  
    Seeing no way to react to what he said, I only wanted to kill the awkwardness now, so I stood up and walked away, saying I’d be grabbing a cup of coffee for myself. Last night had been a marathon of nightmares, and for the past two weeks I’d been a zombie of  a man, surviving of caffeine to keep me up in the mornings and Prozac, for the usual PTSD. Even the masturbation I did for stress relief quite often... had completely died away. I had realized it when I rubbed my dick literally for 45 minutes and getting virtually no result.  
    Don’t even mention sexual drive. Sexuality is something that I’m going to be burying for long, I suppose.  
    But Moriarty, he followed me. He did not stand right next to me, but kept a distance of a few steps. I realized this, but couldn’t dare to look back. I wanted to shout at him for it; I wanted to punch him, just ask him what he wanted from a man such as me. I was going to be assisting students in the Traumatology department, while he was the youngest and arguably the brightest professor in the whole university; A man of unimaginable prestige and appeal, popular with everyone. What was it that he sought from me?  
    I stopped by the coffee machine and poured myself a full plastic cup. I’d had enough by then.  
    “Jim, do you have a question or something? May I ask you why you’re exactly following me? If it’s something that you want to say, Jesus, just don’t shy away. Ask it, say it, whatever. I am not quite well, -you see I walk with a cane, not to mention anything mental-, and if there’s something that you desire, tell me right now or leave me alone.”  
    I paused for a moment, then added: “At least for a while.”  
    He paused for a moment, slightly lowering his eyebrows, giving me a blank, pitying look. I noticed his slightly protruding lips, looking unusually swollen and gleaming under the neon light, due to the weird facial expression he was making.  
    I quickly diverted my eyes.  
    A moment later, when I had came back to myself, Professor James Moriarty had left his saliva coated on the scar of my right temple, after performing an action that felt like a crossover of kissing and licking to me. Looking straight ahead, I wiped it away.  
    It didn’t disturb me.  
    I didn’t particularly enjoy it either.  
    Perhaps it was the indifference to life, caused by the medication. Perhaps.  
    I looked at Moriarty. He had put on a childish smile that looked strangely genuine.  
    “You know, John, saliva is proven to have antiseptic effects on wounds. If you’re going to frequent the medical facilities of the University, you’re much better off when your wounds are properly cleaned.”  
    His smile widened into a fully fledged grin.  
    “I mean it, John. Be seeing you in Traumatology, then. I’ll make sure the Biochemistry kids get to see your section sometime.”

 **Chapter 2**  
  
 **Sherlock Holmes’ Personal Inbox (4):**  
  
    -FW:FW:FW:FW: DO NOT MEET UP WITH THIS GUY, I JUST LEARNED I GOT HIV FROM HIM, PLEASE HELP ME, TURN HIM INTO THE AUTORITIES  
 **(from proudtobequeer1289@rocketmail.com)**  
    -IMPORTANT: The Cupcake Case (Will you just look into this for a moment?)  
 **(from mholmes@hmsgovernment.co.uk )**  
    -Enlarge your penis in just 2 months, 100% Guaranteed  
 **(from donotreply@privatepartslaboratories.co.uk)**  
    -Do you remember me from high school? You’d taken me out for coffee once. Would you like to come over to my flat for another round perhaps?  
 **(from darkgirlamandaxxx@gmail.com)**  
  
    More junk, more junk and more junk.  
    But I must admit, I did look into the “coffee” offer for a bit, really thought it was someone. The immaturely named mail address was a dead giveaway, though. I did know an Amanda from high school... But I’d rather not remember those days.  
    Most likely it is just another fan in disguise. My following base does appear to be smarter than the others, on average. Obviously interested in my deductive skills and the flexible mind, but their desire is still a primitive one.  
    I wouldn’t be surprised if I seriously replied to that mail, saying I would be coming over, asking for an address, I would be getting a mail back decorated with “OMG’s” and this Amanda getting out of control and out of the sophisticated character she has employed to contact me. She even managed to obtain my personal e-mail address, which is fairly impressive from a person that I assume to be a fan.  
    But then, a handful of fans somehow manage to obtain my address on a daily basis.   It’s most likely spread between them. They mostly end up in junk mail. This one somehow went through the filter.  
    Perhaps I really should be looking into this one. It’s not one of the many cases Mycroft offers me, knowing from experience that I have a 94% chance of rejecting the case. I would rather not spend my energy on these cases of “utmost difficulty”, as I know, despite their inferior skills, it could be solved by the standard police or the MI6, if concerning the Government directly.  
    Just a few months ago, I had rejected an offer from Mycroft about potential nuclear missiles hidden in the Shetland Islands, presumably by the Soviets during the Cold War. This investigation was literally involving half of MI6 personnel, as well as notable detectives from other branches, and no intelligence had been gathered for three months.  
    The case just was too boring. If you could only see why it was.  
    What was more interesting at that time were cryptic notes that were being left just across 221B Baker Street. A mysterious cyclist, constantly wearing sunglasses and a wool beanie, was leaving them on the same spot every few days, usually on weekdays and on afternoons. I collected the notes over time, just after he left, but the sort of cryptology he used, I could not figure out for long.  
    That was what drew it to me. It didn’t take long to see it was a private, artificial coding type, but still there was a pattern to be figured out to it. Every cryptic writing should have a translation to another form.  
    I only figured out what it really was on the day everything was too late: This mysterious figure came again, greeted coldly by a young woman with a frowning face, and an argument ensued this, after which the young woman left in tears.  
    At the same moment, I had cracked the code.  
    The letters were nothing but love letters, each of them containing a different phrase, written in a very bland fashion. Nevertheless, they were love letters, and I had successfully  ended a budding relationship between two people. The lad deserved a recognition for his ability in cryptology, though. He had created something that had taken Sherlock Holmes weeks to figure out, without even knowing it.  
    Not something quite out-of-ordinary.  
    Relationships belong to my weaker area.  
    I’m out of practice.  
    Or, in fact, just “practice” seldom, as it is a biological necessity.  
    At least that’s how it’s been so far. While I do realize I could not commit myself to any proper relationship because how “I’m married to my work”, as some people like to say, rather dully. Yet I’m a male human being with a fully functioning endocrine system and developed genitals. It mostly isn’t there, but the urge strikes me sometimes, and that’s when I go out for some fishing.  
    When it comes, it just flows through my blood momentarily. I lose my discipline, my borders, my thinking.  
    I snort some coke, and go out for the bars. Speaking of coke:  
    “Mrs. Hudson, has a package arrived for me?”  
    Some rustling and tumbling and sounds of gentle steps from the stairs. I keep staring at my screen, pretend to be focused on something and thinking deeply. She drops the package by the door and leaves without uttering a word. I assume she does not know about my cocaine habit, nor about the contents of the package. I sometimes think she’s pushed too much into the background nowadays, but well, what can an old lady like her really do?  
    I walk up to the package, pick it up, and tuck it in a drawer, neatly hidden under some electronic junk remaining from previous cases. Memorabilia.  
    And during these desperate times for a case, in which any client has failed to come up with anything strong and Mycroft’s offers are worsening by the week, I like to look up some news. I am Sherlock Holmes after all, I could involve myself anytime by now. Having a recognizable name in business is certainly an advantage.  
    I look through the pages...  
    Murder of Muslim girl, originally from Pakistan, aged 16. Was pregnant. Murderer unknown, but likely to be revealed soon. Likely religious reasons.  
    An attempted gun-based rampage by a senior high school student, who manages to kill a single person and somehow leaves the scene, untraceable at the moment.  
    And then: Murder at the University of Hawkenridge. Something a bit more mature.

  
    Honestly, not the best case to take up around these times.  
    But then, when you’re “unemployed” for over a month, one grows desperate for new cases. Good enough is good enough for me.  
  
 **Chapter 3**  
  
    I was one of the first to be summoned to the scene. The only doctor at that section of the University at that moment, sleeping in my office. And yes, I currently lack a proper household and use my office as a home as well.  
    I was sleepless as usual, despite starting new medication that a psychiatrist suggested, which he promised is very successful with those suffering from PTSD. In my case, it has caused an upset stomach and slight convulsions when I’m lying on the bed. I don’t even know what I’m being given anymore. Just desperate for a cure to this. To return back to normal life.  
    Yoga? Perhaps devote myself to religious purposes, give this all up and become a monk?  
    No, just not my thing. What could ever get me back onto the track? Maybe I could really go and befriend Moriarty... Have a proper companion in this prison of thousands, where I’m all alone by myself. Moriarty seems to be the only one paying attention to me, but then again...  
    When I was on the plane, back to the United Kingdom from Afghanistan, I promised myself one thing and one thing only: to not think about death or violence, and to not experience it anymore. Only help patients. No death, no critical cases, no suffering. Yet, not long after my landing, I’m walking again to the location of a corpse.  
    Life likes to play with you sometimes.  
    I braced my eyes as I opened the door to the bathroom, ready to smell the usual reek that has been haunting me ever since I first experienced. Nightmares start and you live and them, but they don’t have a way of ceasing. Feels unbeatable, unsolvable.  
    This time, though, I did not smell any blood. There only was the smell of hygiene. I could hear a few officers discussing the murder, and it didn’t appear like they had much to say about it.  
    “It’s as if this girl just wanted to leave her body and fly away as a soul. And it doesn’t look to me like she has a body that she would’ve despised, I mean just look at that...”  
    I grimaced at that remark of his. Suppose I don’t share the best interests with him.  
    When I opened my eyes to finally see what’s around me, I noticed three coppers staring at me. I drifted my eyes away from them so they could stop doing that.  
    “Hello, I’m Dr. John Watson, I’ve received a phone call in my office about a murder that occurred here. May I examine please?”  
    It wasn’t like I was too eager.  
    “Oh... Right Mr. Watson, step right this way, the body is right here. I’ve heard this is the first murder in this school since 1892. And the second one, for that...”  
    The lower-ranked officers stepped away to reveal the body, pale as a ghost and smeared with filth at certain points. Just behind the body was a man, obviously of higher rank, wearing a long black overcoat. He had short and clean-cut hair, grayish, whiting out towards his temples. He saw me coming, uttered a strongly muffled “Hello”, and continued to look at the body.  
    I didn’t know quite what to do, as the body had no marks of abuse or gunshots. It was mostly out of my area of expertise.  
    “Would you mind if I examined the body for a while?”  
    He appeared lost in thought, snapping out of his confusion after a few moments I had directed the question at him.  
    “Ah, yes, yes go on. You were... Excuse me, I forgot?”  
    “Dr. John Watson. I work in this University.”  
    He nodded, then turned out to stare out of the window. The sky was decorated with gray clouds, with slight illumination from the sun behind them.  
  
    I put on my latex gloves, slowly rotating my hands around the young woman’s body, checking for any signs of a deep but hardly visible cut of a sort, which I suspected could be the reason. The blood may have been cleaned afterwards, after all.  
    Yet, nothing.  
    Then I heard the door open. The man turned his back, his expression changing in an instant. He smiled just a tad bit, yet didn’t look exactly happy.  
    “If it isn’t my jolly good fellow, Lestrade himself is here before me. As usual, perhaps I should say?”  
    “You know what, Sherlock, I was actually thinking of calling you in this time. You’re actually fairly late. What happened to you, you look quite out of form?”  
    “Oh, I haven’t had a case for over a month, that’s what happened. Iron grows rusty after a while, reacts with the oxygen, -and so can bodies and minds.’  
    Honestly, the first thing that I came to notice about this man was his tone of voice. It sounded too domineering, overwhelming initially. I couldn’t help but get reminded of my commanders back in the base, hollering, giving this order and that; yet, something was different in the way he used it. It was a mellow voice, like finely composed music. It was full of self-confidence, meticulously brought up from his vocal cords. It truly did sound like a musical masterpiece, somehow vaguely reminding me of Beethoven’s 9th, 2nd movement. Rising beautifully and reaching a peak, strong yet gentle, distant yet welcoming.  
    I turned my back to see a face that would leave a mark on me for a long, long time. What was it that was happening to me? Is it the usual thing that happens to everyone at one point in their lives?  
    Living in a male-dominated brutality camp had even pushed me to misandry, but this someone was not to be identified by his gender, not exactly. I could feel my mind somehow crossing borders, literally, and it was painful, as if I were living through a stroke. My mind “exploding.”  
    The only physical reaction I could reflect to the outside world was a sickly cough.  
    “You haven’t lost your attitude, after all. So, Sherlock, let me give you some background information on the...”  
    “Lestrade. I’m begging, yes, I am begging, please shut up for a while. Do you realize this is the first body... to be exact, the first corpse I’m laying my hands on in an unimaginably long time? If you do, then don’t say a single word please, until I speak to you.”  
    Lestrade groaned and turned his back, continuing to watch the outside world. It had started to rain now.  
    He was looking at me now, still wearing a blank expression. Was he not going to ask who I was? Kneeling beside the body, I was about the height of a seven year old, and couldn’t help but feel like one. Suddenly I was feeling as if eyeing that special someone who sat a few desks ahead of me, admiring and blushing.  
    But I had to keep my mask on, this was a professional situation. There was a corpse lying about, attached to an unresolved murder story.  
    And finally he spoke: “Could you move out of the way, please? I need to take closer look.”  
    So that was it? Thing’s had already been pre-determined apparently. Not the best day, then. Too bad, better luck next time.  
    How long could I go with trying to reassure myself like this?  
    I moved out of the way, walked a few steps to a vantage point where I could watch this man, Sherlock, without being noticed by the coppers, who were busy fantasizing about the body now, talking in whispers, and Lestrade, who stood elegantly against the window.  
    He knelt down and did what I did to the body.  
    Unlike me, though, his face lighted up after a while.  
    “Have you looked at the body yourself, Lestrade? I am seriously starting to believe you are setting sail towards mental retardation. This shouldn’t have been such a big mystery at all.”  
    “Nah, well, I didn’t bother looking. I was intuitively aware that you were going to arrive soon, so why should I even tire myself with it?”  
    “This body does seem to be examined before, though... Which fine gentleman was looking at it, may I ask?”  
    Was this my turn to shine? Speak up, John, speak up, he’s asking for you... C’mon you little shy boy, just speak. Tell him it was you, that you’re a doctor here, please, just...  
    “Ah, it was Doctor... I’m really sorry, I forgot again.”  
    “Watson, Dr. John Watson. Very pleased to meet you, Sherlock...?” While saying this, I reach out my latex-gloved hand to him. I am consciously losing the sense of time and space here.  
    He takes and firmly grips it, almost swallowing my whole hand with his. My psychiatrist had once told me that this was a sign of dominance seen during handshakes, but I didn’t mind much here. I felt his flesh radiating heat under his black leather gloves, that was enough for me.  
    “Sherlock Holmes,” he finished the sentence. His voice still had the same appeal to it, but with unusual gentleness this time.  
    I smiled a genuine smile, instinctively. It had been a while. I pulled my hand away from his, and my arm was trembling. The smile grew to a silly grin as I noticed that he had noticed my reaction to this, still wearing his blank expression. After a few seconds of this, which felt like an eternity, I could only stop the tremble with the help of my other hand.  
    “It’s pretty chilly in here.” I tried to make up for it. Yes, John, you were perfectly fine and normal a moment ago, and now it’s suddenly cold for you? A likely story.  
    Maybe that was exactly what he was thinking at the moment. Perhaps I was giving intentional signs to him, even though I couldn’t control them?  
    “So, gentlemen, what I am saying is that, if you look closely here, you will see that the skin is punctured. It is disappointing that you two couldn’t even observe this, let alone assume that this could’ve been only done in such a way.”  
    Weak handshake, trembling, and now I’m disappointing him. What do I know about this man? I’ve heard of his name before, but he would certainly be in a... What am I even thinking? Ridiculous thoughts.  
    I come a bit closer to him to see the punctuation mark on the woman’s left arm.  
    “A small needle would be the murder weapon then.” I added, which sounded stupid.  
    He smiled upon this remark.  
    So you find it funny?  
    “You must be new to the business, Dr. Watson.”  
    “Please, John, I prefer to be comfortable with my acquaintances.” Now what? He has become my acquaintance, then. Apparently. Acquaintance. Pretty vague for now.  
    And now my breathing and heart rate increases slightly. I am reminded once again that I am a machine that recognizes the input and produces an output. “Act natural,” they would’ve said.  
    He’s still smiling, though. But it fades away after a couple of seconds.  
    “Okay, John. Since you are the only current available medical specialist at the moment, I would like to you to come with me to an examination room, where we can thoroughly work on this body. Would that be okay, Lestrade? I’m actually wondering if you’re into this case or not?”  
    “Oh, me? Well, since you seem to have acquired a partner for yourself already, I think there’s no need for me anymore here. I could go out and do better things for myself.”  
    Sherlock chuckles at this, and our eyes meet for a split-second. I feel the childish panic kick in again, just for that second, as I quickly look away at the fading blue of the bathroom wall. I think he does it too; but I can’t see for sure.  
    “Would you two mind being my guest for a few moments? Meanwhile, I could send some people to pick the corpse up and carry it to the examination room.”  
    It is no one but Moriarty.  
  
 **Chapter 4**  
  
    “How is your life going, Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I’ve heard a lot about you, actually.”  
    James Moriarty drew my attention in an instant. It’s in his demeanor. It tells so much about him; the way he talks, the words he chooses, his gestures, everything. But all I’m seeing right now is the tip of an iceberg. Moriarty holds back something. Moriarty is into something.  
    “Quite better now, actually. I feed on cases, Professor Moriarty.”  
    “Jim, please. I’ll save you the burden of pronouncing the word ‘Moriarty’. It’s a lovely word, of Irish origin, meaning ‘sea-worthy’. Well, that’s a bit of trivia for you today.” He smiles fiendishly, lolling in his revolving seat.  
    Moriarty’s office is one of deep intellectualism: one large wall is solely preserved for works of philosophy, ranging from Ancient Greece to the modern philosophers of our time, as well as other works of non-fiction. The wall on the opposite side has the same gargantuan bookshelf, but this one is based on thick hardcover books on biology and chemistry. Both bookshelves are mahogany, and the floor is wooden as well. He possesses a wide office desk, made of polished mahogany. Just behind him is a portrait from the impressionist era, presumably Monet. It appears to be a painted copy of the original one. And most attractive of all, on his desk is a medium-sized portrait of Marquis de Sade, fitted in a silver photo frame.  
    “So, John, do you know who this gentleman is in this framed picture right here?”  
    John Watson. John is arguably suffering from an anxiety disorder. The clues were out there, back in the bathroom.  
    I still don’t understand the blushing, though.  
    I do realize I am developing a distorted perception of John Watson, though. I can’t profile him like the others. I can’t profile him as an object nor a tool, and rarely do I label people with something else. It currently rests beyond my understanding.  
    Or perhaps, it’s something that is much simpler.  
    After all, what could be out there that truly lies out of my interpretation of it?  
    John narrows his eyes, examining the portrait in thought.  
    “Mozart?” he says.  
    Moriarty frowns a little, apparently not seeing something he wanted to see in John.  
    “Ah, John, learn a few things, will you? This is Marquis de Sade... French nobleman. Heard of him before?”  
    John just shakes his head in disagreement. He looks much like a little schoolboy from my view, his arms dangling lazily from his shoulders and his hands meeting just in front of his groin. What’s the word people use for this context... cute.  
    His face is the face of a man who has been through a few things, though.  
    “Marquis de Sade was a revolutionary,” Moriarty begins.  
    “He taught humanity how to overcome his artificial, meaningless chains and embrace the libertine lifestyle. He’s the one who has reached the true and perfect state of mind, embracing life as it came to him... I could’ve talked for hours to you, John, but you see, I don’t want to bore you much. I’ll just tell you the word sadism is derived from his name. That’s explanatory enough, I assume?”  
    “Yes, yes, thank you.” And he looked at me, this time without his previous shyness, and as if to ask “What are we even doing here?”  
    “So, let me go back to our honor guest today, Mr. Holmes? Out of interest, I’m asking: What intrigued you so much about this particular case that you came all the way here?”  
    “I was merely needy of a case, and this one was the best one that came along. It was a bit random, I think, but it was the best one.”  
    Moriarty leaned back on his puffy leather chair, revolved around for a couple of tours, staring intently at his ceiling.  
    “Hm. I truly find it strange for someone like you to act so random. I think there could be something else...”  
    “And what is interesting for me, Jim, is your indifference to this murder. I would’ve almost suspected you, but I know you are wiser than that.”  
    Moriarty was delighted to hear this, his eyes shining with even more fire inside them and his mouth forming into a wide grin. He was looking at John this time, though.  
    “You know what they say, Sherlock, the universe is rarely so lazy.”  
    “I think it’s we get up and leave, Jim. We don’t want to waste anymore time on this... The body should be waiting by now, uh... We don’t want it to rot or anything, right, Sherlock?” said John, drops of sweat forming on his forehead.  
    “I agree with him, it has been a pleasure meeting you, Jim Moriarty.”  
    The three of us stand up, and John and I are just about to walk out of his office when I see Moriarty embracing John. Unusually for an embrace, Moriarty slides his right hand all the way up John’s shoulder and momentarily holds his clenched fist against his shoulder, as if stabbing with a knife or just punching him in his shoulder. I see John grimace for a moment, his narrowed, bloodshot eyes looking at me. As if something is biting him.  
    Then Moriarty lets go of him and opens his hand. There is nothing visible in it. We leave for the examination room. John doesn’t look back, but I notice Moriarty standing by his door and waving at us in slow motion.  
  
 **Chapter 5**  
  
    I only stood aside, crossing my arms and watching him puncture the woman’s skin and take a blood sample. A couple of doctors, apparently working in the forensic medicine area, paid a visit once but left a moment later, when they saw Sherlock himself was working on the case. He asked me to lock the doors afterwards, and so I did.  
    There was incredible grace about his movements. He almost reminded me of a ballerina, walking around and leaning over the pallid face of the corpse, still examining, doing scientific work, but it was almost like art for me.  
    I didn’t think I could deny anymore. But why?  
    “Take this, John, create a sample on that petri dish over there and prepare the microscope please. I don’t think you’re very experienced in blood examination... You seem to have the look of someone who’s more experienced with wounds and first aid.”  
    “Yeah, uh, well... That’s what I did for a long time.”  
    “Presumably not here?”  
    “Afghanistan.”  
    Now, finally, I was feeling I was getting more comfortable with him.  
    “Just what I thought. Good to know. I was out of practice for a while, you know.”  
    “Out of practice? I’m out of practice of life.”  
    “That’s a... rather dramatic way top put it, wouldn’t you agree, John?”  
    “Yes, well, possibly... Well I don’t Sherlock, I seriously am not quite alright, I-”  
    “Shush, please John, bring me a scalpel now, if you’re done with setting up the petri dish.”  
    I walked over to the counter and walk back, handing him the scalpel. It’s not the best option happening here, but things have been partially normalized, at least. My heart rate still seemed to be a little too fast, but at least I’m not trembling anymore. And from my reflection on the metal equipment on the counter, I could see that I wasn’t really blushing either. All’s hidden in my heart now; that’d would be a way to put it.  
    Hidden, though. Hidden? What are we hiding?  
    Sherlock starts dissecting the abdominal area of the woman, but drops the scalpel beside him halfway through.  
    “I should’ve looked at the blood sample, before it dries off.”  
    He walks to the other side of the room, where I had set up the microscope for him. I wanted to divert my eyes and find a distraction, so I eye the corpse for a while. This one was unlike the one’s I’ve been dealing with for long, lying there like Snow White waiting to be awakened rather than a sunburnt soldier screaming in agony.  
    His examination of it didn’t take long. Soon he raised his head, and declared: “It’s poisoning. The woman has been poisoned by a chemical. The substance is likely to be potassium chloride, which, when injected in large doses, stops the heart from functioning.”  
    I nodded, “That’s very interesting. I’d heard of it. Suppose they use it for some lethal injections in the States, eh?”  
    He raised his eyes slightly, his head still bent from looking at the microscope. “That’s some knowledge there, John Watson.”  
    John Watson. Ha, I liked that. When you’re suddenly being referred with your name and your surname... I don’t know what to make out of it. It seems cute.  
    Plus, why is he underestimating me so much? I’m a doctor, for crying out loud, I’ve been trained in medicine, of course I’m supposed to be at least a bit knowledgeable about these-  
    “Excuse me, are you saying something, John?”  
    Did I just say that aloud? Did I just do it? That wasn’t particularly good, was it, John? Must be the drugs at work, that medication, I think I need to stop it. It’s not doing any good and anytime I could start hallucinating because of it. Plus, I’m seriously feeling better now, actually. I feel I’m on the right track, and things are going to be alright in a while.  
    “John, are you there?”  
    “Yes, yes, I am here. Anything that you want?”  
    Your heart and your mind, I imagined him saying in his enigmatic voice. It is a rather cheesy thing for him to say, though.  
    “I would like to request something from you.”  
    Oh boy, here it comes. What is he going to request? Most probably another surgery tool or some chemical for further examination. We’re doing serious work here, after all, and we have to focus on it.  
    My psychiatrist had once told me, according to the tests he had given me, I’m sort of a “romantic idealist.” I like to imagine and think on situations, and he said these things draw me into them, and when I’m imagining something romantic, I lose contact with reality.  
Paying attention to nothing. Just like sleeping, daydreaming.  
    “John, snap out of whatever you’re in, and just come over here, on the spot I’m standing right now.  
    He was standing on the shorter side of the steel platform on which the body was lying. He was facing the body such that he was face to face with the woman. As if he could just crawl onto the table and get his job done in missionary position with her.  
    “Okay, sure, but why?”  
    Being able to question was another thing. I couldn’t understand what was it with me? I had grown a pair, suddenly, perhaps.  
    Yet, I wasn’t like this with Moriarty. Moriarty still intimidated me, but still felt as someone that I could bond with.  
    There was a lot of confusion within my mind. Bond with? What bond with Moriarty? He speaks of sadism. He’s not healthy.  
    Could he be who’s behind the murders too? But Sherlock said he couldn’t be him. Was he acting there?  
    “Look at me and listen carefully. I want you to stand on this spot right here, facing the corpse. And lift your arms so that they’re on the same plane with your shoulders. Just like being touched and examined by security guards. I’m doing this so that... I can compare the complexion of a standard alive person and this particular corpse. I’m trying to spot a particular sign here, will you do this for me?”  
    I did what he told me to do, facing the corpse. I heard him take a few steps back, then take a few steps forward.  
    Then I heard a metal object, probably the scalpel, drop onto the ground with a clink. Feeling cold on my back, I reached back to it, noticing it had been cut perfectly through the middle.  
    “Ah, I dropped the scalpel, sorry. And it looks like it cut your shirt. My bad.”  
    Then he stopped for a second, most probably eyeing my back in his classic detective fashion: looking as if staring through it, the eyes moving frantically about, trying to make up something out of the situation. At least, that’s how I envisioned him looking at me like that.  
    But why would a detective look at my back like that?  
    “Yes, uh, I think I better go and change, hmm?”  
    Did I really want to do that? This situation was already killing me. I must’ve been sweating bullets by then, and I could feel the drops rolling down my back as well, stopping at certain moments and rolling their way into my underwear. Which happened to be a bit wet by now as well.  
    I also noticed I was taking in cut, exasperated breaths, breathing rapidly. I think he could hear me breathing as well. It felt like nothing could escape Sherlock Holmes’s senses: he would notice the slightest change in his environment.  
    I finally turned back at him to see how he really looked like. Rather than trying to make something out of my back, which was the way I had envisioned him, because that was the most alluring thing about him, I suppose. He looked more like a child, or perhaps a dog with his head tilted slightly to the side, trying to figure something new out, like a math problem.  
    “You know what,” he began, “Keep a bit like this for me please.”  
    For you? Sure, Sherlock, I suppose I could do that for you.  
    “In fact, just take the whole shirt off, it really is blocking my view.”  
    I was doing what he was telling me. I didn’t ask why this time, and I seriously didn’t know how this could help him to solve the case, but I moved on. I realized I objected to quite a few things nowadays. It was the clinical depression, the PTSD, that probably pushed me this far. Maybe the medications: oh, how I suspected them for everything happening to me. I was somehow accepting my fate, moving along with the train, just taking in whatever that came in my way. Literally, maybe.  
    “Yes, yes, that’s much better John. Now, let me stand back and examine for a while. Just give a moment, and I’ll let you go and change.”  
    And I really did hear him stepping back a bit. So it was not what I really was considering? Was he teasing me, somehow?  
    “Teasing you? Funny for you to say. Don’t be silly, why would I tease someone like you? I... doubt I’d ever do something like that.”  
    So that happened. I just said it aloud. I asked him if he was teasing me with this. I think I’m really giving everything up, including the shrink sessions. They’re making me go off. And I seriously think I feel a lot, lot better now.  
    I feel a lot better as I feel two cold, damp, moist hands massage my back.  
    “Sherlock...?” I manage to say. My voice sounds broken and weak, vibrating.  
    He responded with nothing to that, continuing the gentle massage that he began with, going up to my shoulders. My back is pretty much coated with water now, now that Sherlock’s hands is on it as well and my heart’s beating at unbelievable rates.  
    The last time I reached such a rate should be back in Afghanistan, probably when a bomb blasted off 5 meters from our armored vehicle, which resulted in a couple of deaths.  
    But hey, I’m being massaged now. That’s not what I should be remembering.  
    It feels like heavens. To be touched by someone other than near-death soldiers clinging onto my uniform and uttering phrases to their God. Were they assuming I’m a priest or something?  
    I’m no priest. I’m a needy, greedy person. And it feels good, just perfect, just perfectly satisfying, to be touched by this person. Desired attention, and I’m getting it, apparently. How often does that happen in our lives?  
    Then, and then, I suddenly find my eyes facing the dead woman’s crotch. My chin ached like hell, having hit the metal platform in the way. Sherlock is just onto me right now, riding me almost like a jockey, at least for the upper body part. He still is not saying anything, and from what I’m hearing, his breathing is slightly elevated, but not even close to mine. My metabolism has somehow launched itself to a frenzy, maybe tripling its usual rate. My lungs and my heart, they’re having convulsions, raging uncontrollably.  
    I’ve realized I’ve lost my ability to rationally think by now. I never was a rational thinker anyway.  
    But the dead woman’s crotch, not only do I not want to see it right now, it smells! It reeks with an unimaginably pungent smell, indescribable...  
    “Sherlock, for God’s sake, just lift me up! Can you imagine, just imagine, how it feels like to be in this position right now? I’m facing a dead woman’s cunt, for crying out loud! I don’t want that.”  
    It seemed like I had revealed my true self by then. Here I was, with a detective that I had merely met a couple of hours ago maybe, and now he had me against a table with a fresh corpse lying on it. I was truly living the life.  
    I was suddenly, strangely, glad that I was not married to some random woman and spending time with my children, unlike many of my colleagues. Go home, do your hobbies, read, try to bear with your children’s tantrums, the wife’s complaints and bitchiness. Make your children happy, make your wife happy, and you’re supposed to be happy as well.  
    No sir. This is when I’m happy. This new thing makes me happy. To hell with your wives and children.  
    I have my own needs. I’m a solitary, needy, greedy human being.  
    Sherlock had his head by mine now, just slightly behind, caressing my neck, shuffling one hand around my neck. Over and over, he was gently kissing the side of my neck. I can never forget the sensation of his lips on me at that moment, the warmth and the moisture. The chemicals, the rawness, somehow bonding us. The internationally recognized signs of affection and love.  
    As he kissed and licked, he slowly descended down. I didn’t know what to do with my head, as he was not interested in it, apparently. I turned it towards Sherlock for a second to see his expression, which was someone eating ice-cream with his eyes closed. Or someone playing the violin, lost in the melody he’s playing. Some kind of transcendence was upon him.  
    Over me, I didn’t know. I was too self-conscious. I desired so badly, so strongly. It was a flame, or no, a star burning in me. I was fully aware of that as well. It just was me. I couldn’t get myself to lose myself, though. At least not in this first instance in years.  
    He was down to the part of my body where the back connects to the buttocks, that special place where, roughly, the spine comes to and end. Until he got there, he kept kissing and licking on, leaving a transparent mark like a romantic snail.  
    I could feel a throbbing hard-on against my pants now. He was swaying his hips slowly, up and down, creating friction between my butt and his crotch. It truly felt like I had an animal behind me now. The reserved, aloof detective was gone by now. His charisma that was the child of his seclusion was gone by now. He was an erupting volcano, something that had shed his skin and his identity for something else. He had unleashed himself.  
    And I didn’t say a word when I saw his trembling hand, blinded simply because Sherlock was not looking at where his hands were going, found their ways into my crotch and wrapped itself around my cock, which somehow opened its veins in an instant, filling with warm blood. It was hard to 100% in a few seconds, as if waiting for that specific gesture for ages and ages.  
    It reminded me of the prince who kisses the Sleeping Beauty, waking her up from her seemingly eternal sleep.  
    Then Sherlock, zonked from the action, just let himself go onto me. I could barely prevent from collapsing myself, but since I’d collapse right onto the corpse, that gave me incentive enough to flex my muscles for a while.  
    “Darn, Sherlock, you’re heavier than you look,” I said. He was only breathing, this time noticeably faster, matching the speed I was trying to cope with. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, resting his chin on my shoulder. The robotic lights of the room reflected from his moist forehead. He was looking blank, but especially exhausted. This time, he was the one who couldn’t get himself to look at me.  
    Then I saw him reach out for me, so I responded, and we went on with a very tender kiss, our lips meeting for a couple of seconds, then releasing casually. It was as if we were congratulating each other on our performance with a little seal of love. We let go of each other, and continued with our heavy breathing, which was slowing down gradually.  
    Love, I thought. Love. So it’s this usual feeling described in every book and every movie, shown to us in good and bad and boring ways. Yet, I realized, this what makes something such as love bearable is that it’s personal. A little secret, maybe. Personal experiences, moments, these became my treasures.  
    “John, I’m so sorry.” he said. He didn’t sound a least bit sorry, but maybe that was the way he talked. I had to get used to it, over time.  
    “Never mind, never mind, I’m perfectly alright with what just happened, believe me. There’s nothing to judge here. We have needs, there’s... uh... technically, no shame or taboo in satisfying them, I suppose. Agreed?”  
    It suddenly felt like I was the one dominating over him. As if he were my slave. But somehow, I felt better as the one cock-craving bastard who liked to be satisfied by someone. That someone being Sherlock Holmes, the detective, in this case.  
    “Consulting detective.” he added.  
    I noticed I was going limp, and told Sherlock to go on with his action.  
    “I’m a bit impatient with this now, you see, Sherlock.”  
    “I know, I know, I know a lot of things about you, John Watson.”  
    “How?”  
    “Simple deduction, that’s how. I think you’ve just stated that I was detective. I am supposed to be intuitive.”  
    Then comes a knock on the door. It was simple as that, knock on the door. Thankfully, the room did not have windows on the doors, or we would’ve made the headlines by tomorrow morning.  
    “Is anyone there? I’m unlocking this door in a moment,” said the voice of a young woman, presumably a student. She had a very distinct tone of voice, sounding slightly insecure but with a weird hint of eagerness at something.  
    “Do not open the door please, I repeat, do not open, we are at a critical moment at an autopsy and do not desire any interruption, please.” Sherlock hollered, regaining his usual self-confident and charismatic tone he employed with usual people.  
    “Okay,” the girly voice replied. “But all I need is to pick something up, I’ve just forgotten, I won’t be interrupting,” she said, opening the door.  
    What she saw a middle-aged man of average build and relatively short stature, who happened to be topless for some reason at that moment, lying on a platform that he was sharing with the corpse in question, staring right at her vaginal area.  A man stood beside this short man, looking at the intruder intimidatingly, wearing his black overcoat, despite being indoors. He had turned his back on the woman slightly, to hide away a fully fledged boner that hadn’t gone away since stopping the action several moments ago. I wanted to laugh out loud at the comical situation, especially Sherlock’s expert technique of hiding away his sexual arousal.  
    “If you are wondering what is happening here, it can be explained in a few steps: I, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, am investigating the murder in your school, along with Dr John Watson, who also happens to be working here. I am comparing their complexions to identify the type of poison used in this murder, currently. Mr. Watson is helping me out by letting his body be used a natural example in this case. He is also looking for signs of sexual abuse. Any questions?”  
    The girl just shook her head, uttered a quiet “No.”, turned her back and left the room. Her name tag on her white doctor’s coat identified her as Molly Hooper.

 **Chapter 6**  
  
    John Watson’s living in my flat by now. Mrs. Hudson actually seemed glad that I’ve gotten a flatmate for myself. She probably noticed John’s is somehow balancing out my mundane moods. She’s paying more visits now, not only to bring my cocaine, but also to bring tea for both of us in the afternoon. Though a lot of times, she said she found the door locked, and I couldn’t bother to explain it. “Private matters,” was all I could say, and that was true.  
    “Here’s your cup of tea, Sherlock.” John said, putting the tea on the coffee table sitting in front of me. He sat just across me, having a look on his face that is somehow incredibly satisfied with what is going on in his life, yet still trying to hide it away. John Watson, the clinically depressed, PTSD patient, is now a somewhat cheerful person who always happens to have a silly smile across his face. It’s subtle, but it’s there.  
    He even told me he truly gave up the medications and called his psychiatrist to stop the meetings, saying he truly felt fine now. He told the shrink that “he had found someone to share his life with.”  
    I responded to his remark with nothing. Not that I’ve lost my own interest in him, but that, even for Sherlock Holmes, this has been a significant change. I generally am an adaptable person, as being rational with the situations that I get into requires this specific trait, but even now I can’t truly cope with it.  
    There were two things at hand, currently: the first one being the murder case at the University, which is a part of my regular occupation, and the second one is John Watson, a man that I’ve developed a relationship with.  
    And now, he’s also being my assistant with the crimes. I can’t truly say a full-time, professional assistant, but that’s how it’s meant to be viewed by other people. I don’t know why I’m hiding this away, and so is he, maybe because it’s a relatively new thing, maybe because, well, this is a homosexual relationship and we’re supposed to be confined to a professional environment. I need to remind myself that I am surrounded with intolerant, ignorant people.  
    I am meant to be Sherlock Holmes, the cold, aloof, lone wolf. Adept at solving crimes, his only occupation. A mastermind, an unbeatable genius, a biological computer that can solve anything out there. But people assume that I lack a human side, just because I am this way. Well, I know that I truly am different, but that doesn’t mean I am meant to reserve and hide myself away. I am not a book that is left in a shelf and never opened, gathering dust. I am a book that is also meant to be read by others.  
    And here’s John reading me, then.  
    I can easily tell something is different about John Watson. He naturally falls below my strength of character. To the ordinary eye, he’s a man of averages with a traumatic past. Average height at best, average weight, average build, average intelligence, OK deductive skills. He’s a trained doctor at least, fairly knowledgeable, at least in his area.  
    Do I judge people based on merit, then? Do I somehow apply tests to people I meet and judge them on how they perform, everything numerical and relative to each other, and go for the ones that qualify the best? John Watson does not agree with this sort of classification.  
    It must’ve been something... Something out there that he did to me, something that is most likely subconscious. My attraction to him has been something of... I do not want to call it “feeling.” I am quite certain I am freed of most feelings, the feelings that hinder me and put me to losses, but I can never be quite sure. Feelings are not mathematical, they are a part of a system, but hard to properly analyze. Hard to know if they are truly there or not.  
    My attraction to John has been mostly subconscious, though. Something just penetrated through my mind, and I was there.  
    For me, the concept known as “subconscious” does not truly exist. I know, by vision, every corner of my mind, every idea I possess and every bit of information that is relevant to me, stored neatly in my very own mind palace. But John Watson was not something to be stored there. I think he just moved into my mind palace just like he moved in here with me. He’s not something that’s stored in a drawer, he’s not something that could be expressed by words. He’s in the mind palace, but he’s just walking among the corridors of it.  
    Not that I am unsatisfied with having John here with me. I am perfectly used to my solitude, but some extra topping on that is always welcome. As long as I am satisfied by it.  
    I stand up and fix my eyes on John. He notices this immediately, blushing in his youthful way, looks back at me, and for a moment we stare at each other, as if in a staring contest. Not exactly, though. This is a romantic staring contest.  
    It is still puzzling me how a thinker such as me can give into love like this. It is not sensible. There’s no sense in love. Love could only be a tool to reach the ultimate goal, love is superficial. However poets, musicians and artists may describe it, that is love for me. Or so I thought.  
    Yet, now, I’ve found myself in the middle of it. John is not like the others. John is not my biological, breathing, sweating sex toy.  
    Okay, honestly, that could be part of it. He could be a part of it. I’ve always known and recognized my sexual desires. That is something else.  
    This is an emotional attachment. That is all I can say about this. Maybe I shouldn’t think more.  
    So I bent down and gave John a passionate kiss, and I still felt it rise up in me, the hormones, the pheromones, whatever it could be. It’s much easier to think that this is pure magic, give yourself into the moment, then analyze it. There’s no analysis of love. It’s a simple concept to know, but much different to live through.  
    And John responds just the way I do with him, he returns me the passion and everything. It’s like a choreography. We’re playing our parts, and we’re doing it well.  
    But then, John cut the thing in the middle, and instead looked out of the hazy window towards the street.  
    “Sherlock, I think someone’s visiting the place.”  
    “Right, let me see...” I wiped the window for better vision, and by then, the man in the dark overcoat and a fedora had just walked up to the door, ringing the bell.  
    “I think it’s Moriarty.” John said. I guessed it was more likely to be another client.  
    I told Mrs. Hudson to open the door, and so she did, and John was right about his guess. Moriarty knocked on the door, and I opened it. He stood on the door for a second, beaming like a child. But his eyes were different, almost hateful and suspicious, and they were looking at me. I could only go on with my general facial expression.  
    John stood up, strangely eagerly, went over to Moriarty, who handed him his coat and the hat. He promptly put them on an armchair nearby.  
    Strangely servile.  
    “Hello, friends, hopefully I’m not disturbing anything?” Moriarty said, with a cheeky emphasis on “Hello, friends.”  
    “I hope you’ve come here with a good purpose. I think you are bright enough to assume that Dr. Watson and I are trying to tackle a serious murder here. The murderer is out there, in the University you work in, and I cannot give meaning to your rather cheerful attitude recently.”  
    This remark caused a slight awakening on Moriarty’s face.  
    “Oh? I see... Someone’s annoyed by simple, innocent optimism then. I prefer to have a better outlook on most things, Sherlock Holmes. I do the best that I can for them. I do come here with a good purpose. It’s quite relevant... if... Anyways, I am here to discuss the murder with you for a bit actually. Now that you brought it up yourself, I would like to get straight to the point.”  
    Moriarty walked and got himself seated. John and I sat next to each other, facing him. John had a bewildered look on his face, as if something was essentially wrong with the order of the universe. With his understanding of the universe, perhaps.  
    “Yes. I am listening.”  
    “So, first of all... Is my name clear, Sherlock? Have you gone that far with your deduction to clear my name off the list?”  
    “A strange way to open up the conversation. But yes, I must say, so far with my deductions, you truly are off the list. It is not like I am completely done with gathering evidence and analyzing, though.”  
    In fact, Moriarty was a strong suspect. Everything about him screamed murder. If not murder, then something else. I didn’t know exactly what he was trying to get here. From what John told me, I already knew that he was a strange person. But his exact motivation... remains a true enigma.  
    “Ah, that’s good. I knew you were intelligent enough to figure out that nothing out there could potentially lead to me, that every possibility cancelled each other somehow. Now I don’t need to explain myself. You’ve saved me some work, thank you.”  
    “Well, I don’t really need to reminded anymore that I’m smart. I already realize my capabilities.”  
    Moriarty smiled slightly at this. He still had the same vengeful look about his eyes, though.  
    Revenge?  
    For what?  
    “Ah, well, that was a bit dull for such a positive remark on my side. Never mind then. Say, Sherlock, were you able to figure out the method of murder?”  
    “Yes, it was pretty easy, in fact.”  
    I looked at John. He appeared tense, looking at the ground, trying to divert his eyes from both of us. He looked back at me for a while, puzzled at why I was looking at him. Then he understood, considered for a second, and nodded.  
    “Yes. The murder method was the injection of a heart-stopping chemical, potassium chloride. It’s something that is relatively easy to prepare, especially within the chemical facilities of your University.”  
    “I see, Sherlock. I think I would still be a top suspect, though, given that I am a professor in the area of biochemistry.”  
    “Yes, but did I not say that I have made my deductions, and cleared your name off the potential list? You just stated this yourself, Professor Moriarty.”  
    “Jim.” He chuckled eerily, and added, “Remember?”  
    “Yes, Jim, you are currently off the list. There is not much purpose for you to be here anymore, now that you know you are not being suspected.”  
    “Well, hold it there Sherlock, I’m also here to see my fellow colleague, John Watson.  John, I’ve been missing you quite a bit since you left your office in the University. You know... We were being so good. It’s really hard to find people like you, nowadays.  
    John smiled, and with warmth he added:  
    “Yes, Jim, I understand, but things are... a bit jumbled, you know. Since that murder, I haven’t been feeling particularly well about staying at the University. You know, one day, I could be a victim too. I can’t get myself into such a position, Jim, I just survived a godforsaken war. I’ve seen enough.”  
    Moriarty sighed, looked aside, considered his thoughts for a while.  
    “Right, then. Well... Seeing that, I think I’m better off going back home now.”  
    John stood up promptly upon hearing that, walking rapidly to grab Moriarty’s coat for him. He was again like a servant of his... But why? What would cause such a thing?  
    Was John not mine now? Were we not together with him? What would cause him to act in this way? It surely was not in order. Not something expectable. Something artificial, rather.  
    Just as John handed him his overcoat, Moriarty smiled and embraced him. Just like he had done back in the office. This time, though, he slid both of his hands up John’s shirt sleeves. John grimaced again, for a split-second, but then he was smiling. He was smiling in relief.  
    “Good night, Jim.” I added. He did not respond, and we closed the door.  
    “John, what is wrong with you? I am not quite sure if this would be the most appropriate thing to say now, but am I not the man you are in love with?”  
    John looked puzzled, then said, “Yes, yes Sherlock, I do love you. I adore everything about you, literally everything. You are... um... perfection that has taken a physical form, right here in front of me.”  
    “Then what is it that is between you and Moriarty? Can you tell me that?”  
    “It’s um... It’s nothing, Sherlock, there’s nothing going on between us, you do know that. It’s just that... Moriarty was like a... guide to me, maybe, you know.”  
    “A guide? How is such a man a guide to you? Look at it rationally, just try, John. Moriarty is not good. Not good. Understood? It is very simple to figure that out.”  
    “Look, no, it’s not about him being good or bad... It’s really something else Sherlock. Ugh, I know I’m confusing with these but believe, I am really, really confused as well...”  
    Then a fine drop of blood, forming a line from his sleeve, trickled down onto his forearm. He didn’t notice this.  
    “John, you are bleeding. Open up your arm.”  
    So he did, and there it was: a long, with a mediocre depth, across his triceps. Obvious knife cut, but the knife was small. Small enough to be hidden in a hand.  
    “The bastard cut you while he was embracing you, and you did not notice this?”  
    “I don’t know Sherlock, please stop, I really don’t know what’s going on. What you’re saying is doing nothing but depressing me at the moment. You do realize it’s of no help! So stop for a second.”  
  
 **Chapter 7**  
  
    I held my up arm to him, my sleeve pulled up to my shoulder, and I watched him as he cleaned the wound up. He was gentle with it, his arm moving graciously as he applied pressure with a white piece of cloth against the long cut across my arm. The bleeding didn’t persist for long, and surprisingly soon a scar tissue had formed on it. All through this, Sherlock looked exceedingly, and naturally, puzzled. He focused on the wound and treated it with care, but his facial expression, the slightly distorted eyebrows along with his unchanging focus on the wound, just told me what was going through his mind.  
    And I didn’t know exactly what he was thinking. I did not know what I was thinking either. I was suddenly feeling as if someone had placed a barrier into my mind. I could almost imagine a thin, metal sheet inserted to divide my brain into two parts, somehow blocking me from accessing my conscious thoughts. I felt like I was being used, controlled, like a puppet somehow. I wasn’t certain how this happened, or who did it, or how exactly it was happening.  
    It was like knowing how to read but not being able to truly read anything. And Sherlock... Sherlock precisely wanted to know what was going on. So did I. We had just started living together, trying to go on with something here, but then... What is wrong with me?  
    “I don’t know either, John. I have a very eerie feeling about this. It seems... virtually unexplainable.”  
    He actually sounded slightly angry this time. As if I was somehow being annoying to him, disloyal to him... But I had nothing to do with Moriarty. Yes, I may have helped him through his brief stay at 221B, I may have taken care of him, but there seems no apparent reason for Sherlock to react like this. He was unusually emotional this time. Perhaps even more emotional about this than I actually was.  
    I truly felt nothing. Reacted to nothing. Accepted things the way they went. Or did I?  
    What I really know is that, I am incapable of realizing anything about myself at the moment.  
    I took a bit care of Moriarty there, just as a gesture of... friendliness, maybe? I mean, he was Professor Moriarty, someone who talked to me when I had no one, when I was hopeless. And now, somehow, I felt close to him. In fact, I couldn’t help but feel a bit regretful about dismissing him like that. Why did I feel like this, I lacked the slightest clue about it too.  
    “Perhaps your PTSD condition persists... I think you may need to go back to your medications, John. They could’ve been helping you. And you’ve moved in here with me, out of nowhere, and that could be affecting your psyche. I am not specially trained in the area of psychology, but your psychiatrist may have been right.”  
    But I didn’t think so. It should be something else... Well, Sherlock was right that, whatever it was, it altered my moods and my thinking. But this happened gradually, and I was perfectly okay when I saw that Sherlock was there for me. It was what I was seeking, and it was supposed to heal me.  
    Things changed.  
    Seriously, how did I not notice a deep cut through my arm?  
    And, maybe more importantly, why do I not care about it? This was done by Moriarty himself. There’s also the fact that I happen to feel a sharp pain somewhere, whenever he comes to embrace me... That could have a psychological explanation as well. I mean, Moriarty is... different. He does not necessarily make me feel comfortable; in fact, quite the reverse happens, usually. He could be subconsciously reminding me of the memories... any negative action could result in a negative reaction, after all.  
    Moriarty cut me. That means he want me hurt. He wants something. Is he truly a murderer? Is he behind the murders? And the real question is... Why am I accepting what Moriarty did as a perfectly normal thing? Am I so used to treating severe wounds that, and of course being wounded myself, that this essentially meant nothing to me?  
    “John, I need to do something. Please don’t question and come along.” He grabbed me by the arm, almost dragging me, not looking at me through it. He was intensely staring at the bookshelf, and I swung my arm for a moment to tell him to let go of me, and so he did. He understood that I wouldn’t be questioning him. Now that things have gotten dubious between us.  
    And what Sherlock does is a rather cliche move, seen in numerous movies and books: He removes a certain book, or rather, pulls a lever that is covered by a book-like object, and the bookshelf revolves to reveal a pathway to another room. It’s dark.  
    “Well, Sherlock, this was exactly what you were lacking in this flat here. Does your landlady... What was her name?”  
    “Mrs. Hudson.”  
    “Right, does she know about this?”  
    “Of course she doesn’t. I noticed there actually was a room within the building plan of 221B that was originally designated as a storage room, but for some reason it was disconnected to the area I’m living in with a wall. I’ve built this revolving bookshelf over a period of months, slowly deconstructing the wall along with it. I couldn’t do it over a week or so, as that would require loud tools that would give away what I was doing here.”  
    I nodded. Sherlock still looked tense. Small talk didn’t help right now. Whatever he wanted, I had to get right into it.  
    “So, move along John, I’ll turn on the lights and close the door.”  
    Sherlock turned the lights on, which comprised of four red neon lamps at either side of the room, and it could only give out a dim light. Just bright enough to make the outline of the room visible: An aging wooden platform in the middle, and on top of it, planted on the dusty stone wall, another wooden platform. It reminded me of a crucifix, and its purpose looked similar, as it had four rusty clamps on every side of the rectangular board. On the right side of the room rested a table with drawers beneath it. Presumably for “tools.”  
    “Lie on the table, please.”  
    Here we go, then.  
    “How do you want me to lie on it?”  
    “I want you to lie on it so that when I climb up on the table myself, I face your back and your buttocks.”  
    And I did as I was told, climbed up onto the table, feeling like a criminal that is about to be executed. Never had Sherlock been so, so strange. It was almost out of character for him. I knew what he was going to do, and I was ready for it, but... Sherlock was certainly going to put his penis inside me, which was supposed to please me... But the eerie feel of the room...  
    “Sherlock, please, can we not do this somewhere else? I seriously can do this anywhere, even on the streets if it weren’t for the people around us, who would be obviously judging and judging badly, but... This doesn’t feel good. This doesn’t particularly turn me on. Let’s have a shower together, shall we? It would also relax your tension a bit, and we could discuss things thoroughly. This room is certainly not... well... romantic, I guess?”  
And then, Sherlock, now truly impatiently: “John, I want you to stop questioning me. Please understand me and try to bear with this.”  
    “Try to bear with this? What kind of roleplaying are you into, Sherlock? At least I want to know how we’re going to play our roles, what context we are in, so... so that I can make this a good experience for you.”  
    But Sherlock’s face was getting more serious by the second. He was looking down at me, standing beside the platform I was lying on now. He was standing like soldier, his arms crossed, looking nonchalant yet still planning something... thinking...  
    “No, John. This is not a fantasy role-play situation. Just you... and me here. Now, hold on.”  
    Sherlock promptly unzipped his pants and pulled his underwear down, revealing his fully hardened cock, complete with blue visible veins running across its shaft, shaking and vibrating in the air. This was the first time I had a full view of it, and it seemed like it was the largest one that I was going to take in so far in my life.  
    “Sherlock, I think it’s better that you use some lube with that-”  
    But what Sherlock did was to jump on the table like a maniacal cat during mating season, slap his wide hands on my buttocks and spread the muscle outwards. Then a pain of something ripping apart, it was... unimaginable. It was as if Sherlock had grabbed a knife, and me being a tense little pear or something, and he was carving a smiley face onto me. Digging his knife into me, cutting the tissue, ripping it apart into two, like a piece of paper being ripped off.  
    “Sherlock, really, this is too painful to be pleasurable to me at the moment, can you pull your dick off my arse, please?”  
    I couldn’t look back, but for some reason I couldn’t help but imagine Sherlock being deeply disappointed that I said this to him, that he was actually frowning now. That he was almost going to cry, but of course, Sherlock would never actually do that. He just can’t mean it, he wouldn’t be able to.  
    “Sorry, sorry, I think you get what I mean, but really-”  
    “John, just shut up!”  
    But it hurt, oh how it hurt, the muscles were just not ready, and while I still could feel some pleasure in it, the agony almost fully overshadowed what I was trying to feel. I could barely keep my hard-on active, with some help from my hand. But it wasn’t exactly being aroused, it wasn’t really what I sought.  
    “One last thing, then, Sherlock. Oh.. Ow.. Agh, can you just stop this, pull it out, pull it out, pull it out, please, let’s just make out, Sherlock please, I’ll let you do this later, please  just, ugh..”  
    The pain was immense, incredible. It was out of measure now. Sherlock’s dick now felt like it was literally drilling through my arsehole, like an uncontrollable, overcharged jackhammer. It was shaking and hitting the walls, ripping the tissue apart. By then I was in a daze of pain, the pain receptors taking control of my conscious thinking, blocking everything, sending me into a passive nightmare. Momentarily I felt something dig into my arsehole as well, as if looking for something stuck in there.  
    Then Sherlock leaned forward, strongly holding my me by the neck with one hand, my head and shoulders fully in his grasp. He dangled a blooded index finger, covered with extremely tiny but numerous amounts of tissue. Tissue from my rectum, most likely. Shredded by a paper shredder of a dick.  
    The hurt train went on for so long that I got used to the feeling after a while. It was like a dull, throbbing wound now. It was constantly there. I was swinging back and forth in the usual motion of fucking, sweating like hell in this dungeon-like room. Breathing in, breathing out. Staying alive. Just that. I couldn’t question Sherlock, I felt immense pain, and I was fully under his grasp. He was the king and I was his slave. I had no place to go, I couldn’t rebel. Life went on.  
    Of course, this could only go on until Sherlock came into me. He came in strongly, pretty strongly. I could literally feel the convulsions in his muscles and on his penis as he spurted his warm, sticky load around my anus. Thousands of sperm cells meeting with red blood cells and tissues. Suddenly, a memory of my biology lessons. Suddenly, a picture of red meeting white. A mess.  
    I sighed in relief as he let go of me. My anus still hurt like hell, and it was painful to make any movement there, including my legs. I could feel something, a line of viscous liquid slowly making its way on my body and towards the wooden platform. It could be blood. It could be the Sherlock Holmes’s semen. It is most likely a mixture of both.  
    “The real question is, Sherlock, I am starting to truly hate you for doing this. I am quite serious. Do you realize what you’re doing to me? Are you out of your mind? You’ve just... I mean, look at my arse... Can you imagine, can you feel the pain I’m feeling? What the heck is the thing with you, Mr. Consulting Detective? Do you know the pain I will be feeling whenever I go to the toilet to take a dump? Do you? I could even need an operation for this, Jesus Christ...”  
    But Sherlock, Sherlock said nothing. Oh, he had already told me to shut up, of course. He was only reiterating this with the silence. I wondered, but didn’t really want to know, didn’t want to live, through what was to come.  
    Love and pain. This was the perfect, just incredibly well-done mixture of both. Was it a move by him to balance his feelings towards me? Was it a... was it a message? Was he punishing me?  
    Never mind that. Just consider what’s happening next.  
    “I suppose you wouldn’t be able to walk now, John, so here, I’ll help you stand up on your feet.”  
    He hopped onto the platform. I couldn’t help but watch his dick along the way, which  had gone slightly limp but still strong, still stored with blood. And some semen still trickled down onto the ground from it. He held me by the shoulders and literally carried my whole body to the clamps attached onto the wall, then turned me around so that I was facing the wall. A minute later I was fully attached to the wall, my back, my buttocks, my legs, my neck and part of my head fully accessible by Sherlock. I felt like his plaything. I truly was his plaything.  
    Then the sounds of Sherlock jumping back onto the ground, the sound of a few steps taken. The sounds of some tools being placed and removed and so on, then a bit of silence, and during the silence I could imagine Sherlock admiring his weapon of torture. Then the steps are repeated, and presumably Sherlock steps back onto the platform.  
    “Let’s make love, John.” Sherlock said.  
    “I thought we already made it, Sherlock. That was love just right there. Pure, kind, love. I’m sure.”  
    “Oh, you haven’t seen anything. You know, John, phrases could be interpreted in many different ways. I am literally going to make love now. You will see. But remember: Through this, bear with me, don’t question and shut your mouth.”  
    I got whipped after that. One professionally done, careful stroke to my left shoulder. It went reddish in a second, I’m sure. If Sherlock were to repeat his gesture on the same spot, it would’ve bled after a few more hits.  
    He didn’t stop after this, though. He went on with his whipping, carefully aiming for some place else on my back for his next move, slowly descending to my buttocks, which he slaps as hard as he could ever do once he was done with the left half of my body. I could feel a soaring burning sensation in a perfectly drawn line along my back, but I couldn’t figure out the shape. As I said, my brain had stopped functioning long ago. What was happening at this moment was like a novel to me, just words to describe the worldly sensations I was experiencing, and probably nothing more. It wasn’t exactly like being drunk, but more like being conscious and blinded, powerless at the same time.  
    At one point, just as he was about to finish ascending up to my shoulder as he drew a pattern, probably the same pattern reflected over, to the right side of my body, his mobile phone rang in the distance. It was resting on the table on the other side of the room, so he got off to answer it. It was then that I realized how lost and nonfunctioning my mind was, as I seriously could not interpret what was going into my ears. It sounded like any other sound, it sounded gibberish.  
    But when Sherlock talked himself, I somehow regained my senses. Well, at least being able to properly hear what he was saying.  
    “John, I got a call on the murder case. It wasn’t very surprising... A second murder has happened in the campus. And it’s on the exact same spot. I have to leave now. It seems like the murder could be uncovered very easily now. In fact... it really wasn’t a case either, from what I make of it. Well, I will be letting you free now, and I’ll help you on your way back. But before you go to sleep, just look at your back on the mirror. You will get the message.”  
    “And by the way, thank you, really thank you for going through this with me. You’ve relieved a lot of things by bearing through all this. Plus, we both got some satisfaction out of it, didn’t we?”  
    And I really did look at my back just before I went to bed. Sherlock had drawn an unusually precise image of a heart, the symbolic one, using his whip as a pencil, on my back. Just slightly incomplete on where he left off.  
    He had literally made love on my back.  
  
 **Chapter 8**  
  
    There was Lestrade again, and a couple of police officers, summoned to the very same spot where I had first met John Watson. As well as examined the first body.  
    “So, Sherlock, take a look. I suppose this one is essentially same as the previous one, hmm?’  
    So I re-examined the crime scene, which was clean, and soon after found the puncture mark on the body. This time, I didn’t need to run a test. I could assume that this was done by the same killer, using the same methodology, the injection of potassium chloride. The victim was a 22-year old female from the University, and from her biography and interviews done by Lestrade prior to my arrival, she was in no way connected to the previous victim. She was not anything special, did not participate in any secret school organizations or events, apart from the perfectly normal volleyball team. So: the victims were chosen at random, whoever happened to be using the restroom when the killer emerged from his or her hiding place.  
    These weren’t murders of revenge. The victims so far had perfectly good standing, and the close friends gave no remarks of a bitter conflict between any common person. The motivation couldn’t have been jealousy either: both females happened to be single with no prior history of a relationship, they weren’t particularly good looking anyhow, and they weren’t particularly popular or prestigious. Other than this, the killer could’ve been motivated by the ideal of violence and murder, but then... the killer would’ve developed more complex ways of murder, something that would be more satisfying. There would’ve been torture, or kidnapping, or messages sent to the police. This one appeared more like a procedural execution of a criminal. There is not much thrilling about taking the lives of average females using a needle. In fact, it is something so dull for a killer to do, it is highly unlikely that such an initial murder would have a sequence, if it weren’t for something that the killer wanted.  
    But then, Sherlock Holmes responded to the murder. Took up this mysterious case in the University of Hawkenridge. This easily made the headlines of most major papers and saw a lot of news coverage, as I was not active for a fairly long time.  
    The killer’s motivation was me.  
    “So, Sherlock, lost in thought again?”  
    “No, not at all. In fact, it was exactly what I thought it was. The killer wants to meet me. I am the target. I am the true motivation here.”  
    “How do you know that?”  
    “Ah, Greg, how many times do I have to repeat this? ‘when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ That is the most simple rule of deductions. There really is nothing else.”  
    “Alright, alright, who am I to question you anyway? Do as you wish, but what will you do anyway?”  
    “Now that the second news article about this event is being prepared, and my involvement in this is certain now, the killer will be most likely waiting for me here. But if I just wander into the restroom as Sherlock Holmes, late at night, I will be most likely facing someone who would pretend to be casually using the restroom. I don’t think this person’s true motivation is to kill me, so that would produce no results. There’s no way I can have proof of that this person certainly is the murderer if I am here as myself. Here’s the simple solution to this: I will be dressing up as a woman throughout the day, meticulously applying make-up, maybe even making some facial injections for a temporary modification of myself. And late at night, I will walk into the restroom... And watch the reaction.”  
    “You’ve got to be careful, though, Sherlock. I mean... the killer can just jump on you and stab you with the needle, and there’s no turning back after that. You’re dead once the fluid is flowing in your blood.”  
    “I’ve thought it all over. It’s not an issue, Greg, as you may know. I’ve been through plenty of situations like this.”  
      
   _(University of Hawkenridge, Mitchell Hall of Biochemistry, 12:37 AM, Women’s Restroom)_  
      
    And here I was, standing. I was facing the dusty mirror, the room lit by a dim old light bulb just above me. It was not enough to fully illuminate the restroom, and most of the corners were dark. The outlines of everything within the room were barely noticeable. Not a bad place to choose for murder, not at all. This was to my disadvantage, of course, but I at least knew what was going to happen to me. I was fully prepared to feel anything on me at the moment. The other victims had no idea.  
    I was whistling in the most womanly tone I could make. I had long, blonde hair, and my image on the mirror could easily rival a young woman going to a party late at night.  I had lipstick on the sink as well, just as a neat addition to the context. My dress was like a long gown, though, and it hid my unusually large feet for a woman. I had shaved my arms just for this occasion, too.  
    And it came.  
    Just a few minutes later, as I was looking at myself in the mirror, appearing to really enjoy my current appearance. It first touched my left arm with a reliably strong force, and the size and grasp of the hand told me the murderer was actually a woman of relatively short and weak build. Swiftly I turned my back from the opposite direction, swinging my fist towards the woman’s image, knocking her down at an instant. The needle in her hand flew to the opposite side, sliding along the wet floor until it was far out of her reach.  
    I stepped on her wrists, looking down.  
    “I know you.”  
    I did. I had seen this woman. I remembered her name. From the tag she was wearing.  
    “Molly Hooper. What a surprise, Molly. Just walking into us like that, then shying away, closing the door. Oh, it could’ve been anyone, really. But your reaction just fits so well into the puzzle. Well then, game’s over, I guess?”  
    Molly was breathing at a rate that I hadn’t seen in a long time. She was insecure. Dazzled. Caught by surprise.  
    “So, what do you have to say? You’ve reached your dream, I guess. You wanted to meet me, didn’t you? Really, though, you shouldn’t have taken the lives of two innocent people just to meet me here like this. And you know, you were almost going to kill me as well. You were so close, just so close. If you had somehow succeeded through this, you would’ve killed your own very own motivation for killing.”  
    Molly was crying now. Or at least, tears from her glands were spurting salty water out, which rolled down her cheeks with the force of gravity.  
    “You, you... You arsehole, Sherlock Holmes... I knew this would end like this... I mailed you so many times, just so many times, from different accounts, doing everything I could to get you interested... Trying to appear to you in so many different ways... With deep intellectualism, with strong enmity, with enigmatic messages... and as a last resort, using the very usual sound of one of your fangirls.. But believe me, I am not ordinary. I am not just like them. I think I have proved that to you now.”  
    I wanted to leave the room and laugh for a continuous five minutes, but I just couldn’t. The situation was so dark humor.  
    “That doesn’t change anything, Molly. You are still a murderer. But I can truly understand your way of thinking about this... I heard you were the top of your class... somewhere. Way to ruin a bright career that was waiting ahead of you.”  
    “Go on now, what will you do? Arrest me, turn me in. You have resolved another case... well, I guess it truly wasn’t a case for you, was it? And now, I am just another thing for you. Just a fangirl who has gone too far. But Sherlock, when I say I’m different, I am not saying it just because I want to retain my ego, or boost it, but I truly am. We could’ve partnered up, Sherlock Holmes, I could’ve been of great help to you. Working with you... the stories of you solving the most impenetrable of cases... I was amazed, impressed. I truly thought that I had found a soul mate for myself, someone who shared a thirst for knowledge, just like me... Someone who wanted to know and solve, someone who was intelligent. But you had made a name for yourself, and I was just a weakling... A forgotten schoolgirl with a boring medical career lying ahead of her. Whatever I did, you dismissed. I was a little rat and you were a ferocious cat. I was nothing to you.”  
    “If you are done with the rather dramatic speech... I must say that you are not entirely insignificant for me. All you had to do was to find a proper way to introduce yourself to me.”  
    “But you are interested in nothing but mysteries to be solved! Murders! That is your thing, that is the only thing that can truly attract you!”  
    “No. There’s more than that. Well... I was just about to say that, within the case you’ve created, I’ve met a truly lovely person. So you’re not entirely insignificant.”  
    “Keep breaking my heart, Sherlock Holmes, keep doing it. You machine. Do you realize what I’m trying to say? Do you?”  
    “Ah, I thought you’d be more worried about the time you would be serving behind the bars, actually. Well, then, Molly Hooper. I do believe you. I do believe you are smart. And if you so want to work along with me... Let me make a phone call.”  
    I dialed Mycroft’s number, who traditionally didn’t answer the phone when I called, but called back soon after I made the call. An old power complex.  
    “Hello, brother. It has been a bit long since we last talked. I hope you’re not very irritated that I ignored most of your mails along the way.”  
    Molly sighed at this.  
    “Well then, Mycroft. Do you remember your proposal about a psychology clinic... Yes... The one that was meant to train intelligent but corrupted minds... Yes, there was the three-year process plan, the psychoanalytic therapies and the aversion therapies. Oh, it’s open now? That is good to hear. I hope you will be accepting a new patient of yours. For now.. We will just pretend that we have caught the murderer and hold a fake trial for him. Of course he’ll be found guilty, we will fix the jury as well. It’s just going to be theatre. Once the public is satisfied with the outcome, you will be gaining another valuable asset for the government... Right, then.”  
    “Molly, listen. If you’re going to accept this offer, and you will accept it, you will be sent to a special clinic. I don’t see anything inherently wrong with you, but you will go through a... process that is going to take about three years, which is much shorter than the time you would’ve served behind the bars. And then, you will truly get to work with me, and utilize your mental capabilities to the fullest. Do you accept this?”  
    She did, and half an hour later she was on her way to the facility. Around that time, though, I received another call, this time from Mrs. Hudson. It must have been the first time she was calling me in months.  
    “Sherlock, I have... a few things to say. First of all, your friend is missing.”  
    “John? John is missing?  
    “Yes, he is missing. The second thing is... the window of your flat is broken. There was a break-in, apparently. Nothing’s been damaged, but well, John is missing.”  
    “Anything else you see, Mrs. Hudson?”  
    “Yes, there is a note left on the bed.”  
    “Can you read it to me?”  
    “Okay, here it is. It says: ‘I’m sorry it had to come to this, Sherlock. All you need is to come to my office. Instead of the usual bookshelf, you will see a door. Open it and enter the room. It is not a trap. This is the only chance for you to reclaim your lovely John Watson for yourself. Can’t wait to see you.’ And it’s by someone named JM.”  
    “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I have to go, then.”  
  
 **Chapter 9**

 

  
  
 _“For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams_  
 _Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;_  
 _And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes_  
 _Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;_  
 _And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side_  
 _Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,_  
 _In the sepulcher there by the sea,_  
 _In her tomb by the sounding sea.”_  
  
    This was what Sherlock Holmes heard as he opened the door to Moriarty’s hidden chamber. It was read by a raspy voice that attempted to be mockingly emotional.  
    “I don’t think you would’ve been the best poet, nor a proper reader, Jim Moriarty. I just heard you successfully ruin a masterpiece of a poem, just with your voice.”  
    “Well thank you, Sherlock, I am a master of ruination, you see. It might sounds like a train of cliche phrases, but it is true that I ruin, corrupt, destroy, burn and rip apart anything that is reasonable to do so. Anything. What I will, I obtain. I realize you are a strong wall standing against my armies, but then, let the showdown begin. Let us battle, Sherlock. That is the way I continue to live my life. It is what I feed on, it is how I obtain my energy to live through this godforsaken nightmare.”  
    “Impressive use of words, Jim, but you know why I came here. What is it that you want? What is the price for John, then?”  
    “Sherlock, you’re making it so boring. This is not how you play this. Try to act, please. This is a crucial moment here. Watch now.”  
    The central part of the chamber lights up. John Watson is lying on a circular platform, high up in the air, surrounded by a railing that circumnavigates him. His feet and hands are tied, making him completely immobile. On top of this, he’s naked with his mouth covered by tape.  
    “And Sherlock, I myself want to congratulate you on how you treated John. The heart you drew on his back, -I assume you used a whip-, was pretty impressive. Perhaps you should start making art like this and display them in postmodern art galleries? Maybe then humanity will learn something about the true nature of sadism. The true nature of pain.”  
    Sherlock remained silent, taking a few steps towards the platform.  
    “Ah, that’s a nice gesture there. That’s more like it. It is not perfect acting, Sherlock, but it could do. Now... let me clarify the context a bit for you. Unlike you, Sherlock, I care about John. I don’t play with him. I treat him like a human, they way it should be done. I like to make him happy. His satisfaction becomes my satisfaction. So all I want for you, yes you, to do now, is to jerk him off. A handjob, perhaps a blowjob, anything that you want. All I want is to see him come. All I want to see that he’s feeling pleasure in this. And you are very lucky that you have the honor to complete this for me, Sherlock.”  
    “That is not it, is it?”  
    “Of course not. Smart thinking there, not surprised. John Watson has just went through a long but important operation... A few things within his body has changed. First of all, there is a complex mechanical system inserted within him now. I can’t give you the details of how it functions, but it will essentially cause his orgasms to be... a bit bloody. Maybe. When the muscles powering his orgasm contract, it will also be powering my mechanical system, which will cut right into his vas deferens, which will let the bloody tissue mix with his semen. I am certain both of you will be able to cope with this.”  
    Sherlock nodded in desperation and rational acceptance.  
    “But that’s not just it... How could I leave it like this? The mechanical unit is also connected to his aorta. That means... just as he comes, John will also be experiencing a cut in his aorta. A massive case of internal bleeding will occur, and John is likely to collapse and never return in just a few moments. He will just be a rotting body, then. You might as well lie with him and watch as he goes through the steps of death. And, you know what, I’ve thought about you a bit too, Sherlock. If you look to your right, you will see that there is a small, transparent case. It’s for you. You can store the sperm and blood of John Watson in it, if you want. Memorabilia.”  
    The platform then lowered itself, getting John and Sherlock face to face. John kept his eyes tightly shut, he was shaking and almost convulsing in his place. He was sporting an extremely strong hard-on, despite the context.  
    “John has been, and was being, drugged for long. I can’t believe you actually failed to notice this, Sherlock. Maybe John was just too alluring for you that you couldn’t pay attention to the details? Anyway, I was injecting John with a mixture of drugs whenever I was embracing him, mainly oxytocin, but a few chemicals that I’ve developed on my own and tested on humans. It instantly develops a psychological bond between the person in the context. It must be given regularly, though, to keep its effect.”  
    “So John’s longing for you was just artificial. How could that still satisfy you?”  
    “I am getting what I want. It doesn’t matter how I do it. I have many ways of potentially achieving it, but I think this could be the most cunning one, don’t you think? Eh, well, apart from that, John has been injected with a mixture of chemicals that causes him to be unbearably aroused. He’s dying for some satisfaction right now. Give the poor lad a hand, will you? And don’t try to untie him, you know I could do much worse than this. As I said, having himself die in orgasm would be the best option anyhow. So go on, I’m waiting.”  
    Sherlock knelt down, sighing. Under the light his eyes were like two finely carved crystals. Sherlock was shedding tears, shedding genuine tears. He had lost his capabilities. He was nothing more than a simple, emotional human being now.  
    “I’m sorry, John. I truly, truly am. I think you can understand me now, too. You’ve always understood me. I am sorry that this had to be very short. It’s my fault again, my dumb head... I’m just so, so sorry.”  
    And Sherlock opened his mouth and tentatively wrapped his hand around John’s dick. He followed the usual motion afterwards, back and forth, back and forth, as if rowing towards a waterfall that was their demise. John was crying, shrieking in pain and the sense of sexual satisfaction. He was moaning, a moment later he was crying as if grieving after a loved one, a moment later just silent, just breathing.  
    Sherlock shuddered as he could sense that John was getting closer and closer to the end. He was getting the usual feeling of oncoming apocalypse, that strange feeling, blended with unbeatable fear. He re-imagined John’s shy gestures, him diverting his eyes away from his. This put a smile on his face, momentarily.  
    Why did it have to be so short? Why couldn’t John live more, why couldn’t he stay, why did he have to go away? Was this fate? Did such a thing as fate truly exist?  
    It had been a while since John’s pre-cum had dripped onto Sherlock’s lips. Now he could truly feel it coming.  
    “Sorry, John, I’m just sorry. I’m... just really bad at last words, I’m sorry. There is nothing to say, I guess.”  
    And then, lost in his hiccups and tears like a little child, Sherlock said:  
    “Can I take the tape off his mouth? Let him say his words. Please, Moriarty, I know you’re incapable of it, but just let him for once.”  
    “He’s not going to say anything for you, Sherlock, just finish the job, you’re very, very near. A few more strokes and he’s going to be in his sweet dream world.”  
    “I’m taking it off, Moriarty, I want to speak.”  
    And when Sherlock took it off:  
    “Sherlock just stop, right now, right now, oh please stop, Moriarty’s going to collapse  in a moment, please I can feel it coming, ah I can’t help it, please, I don’t know-”  
    “John!? He’s going to collapse? What are you-”  
      
    Then a loud thud, and Moriarty was on the floor. His brain tissue spread around the floor. He had fallen from the top of the chamber. Done for.  
    Drugged by his former apprentice, Molly Hooper.  
    “John, Moriarty’s done, oh my god, John it’s... we’re...”  
    A pool of blood and semen, with its usual orangish tinge, was lying ahead of John. He was smiling.  
    “It just felt like heaven, Sherlock.”  
  
  
  
  
      
  
  
      
    


End file.
